Featured Haiga by Karen O’Leary

friendship

midnight dreams--previously published at Sketchbook

fine lines

first grade...haiku--previously published at childwriter's sketchbook

writers

Diorama of Three Diaries
(A Collection of Poems by Sonnet Mondal)

Authorspress (Pages-165)
ISBN: 978-81-7273-610-1
Year of release:-2011

Review By: Dr Shamenaz
Assistant Professor
Dept. of Humanities
AIET, Allahabad.

Diorama of Three Diaries
(A Collection of Poems by Sonnet Mondal)

Poetry is something which comes out from a writer’s mind, heart and sometimes even soul. This is true in the context of Sonnet Mondal, who is a rising star in the sky of Indian English Poetry. His Diorama of Three Diaries is a collection of poem based on many themes like- nature, spirituality, mysticism, problems relating to his country and world.

The very first poem, The Wait seems to reflect the agony of a person. May be Sonnet Mondal is depressed to see the present plight of his country and his state and he has tried to show the pathetic situation of the poor people but he is also hopeful that a new beginning will come.

The Poem, “My Pencil, Eraser & Pen” seems to be a subjective poem by the poet as it shows his attitudes towards writings. He is very passionate about writing poetry and this passion is reflected in some of his poem like- Suppressed, Stepping with Clouds, Flying Muse, and Oh Olive and You Realize It Now.

There are many other subjective poems like- Virus, I Am Not, Searching with Folded Hands, My Dismantled Room, I Want to Fly, Drunk, An Eve With a Stranger, Stay Alert For Surprises, I Won’t Run, Stoniness Turns Playing Cards, My Shadow, Grip Me, Turning Pages, My Style describing about different situations of his life.

He has written some love poems like, Those Soft Fingers, Love and Walnut and Make me Flow. While Those Soft Fingers shows his desperation of love for someone, Make me Flow seems to show his deep love for somebody. Here, he seems to be agreeing with Wordsworth’s belief that, “poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, where emotions recollect its tranquillity.”

He sometimes seems to be inspired by Wordsworth as there are clear inclinations of his motivation which can be seen in the poems like- Seduced in the Sunderbans, Oh Olive, Southern Summer Winds, Butterflies and Mosquitoes, Snow in Spring. Southern Summer Winds shows his deep love and fascination for nature. In Butterflies and Mosquitoes, he has shifted his focus on tiny creatures of nature, butterflies and mosquitoes.

The poem, Seduced in the Sunderbans describes about a delta, Sunderban in West Bengal and Eyes and Skies is about a region in Karnataka (India), known as Donimalai which is surrounded by mines. The poet seems to give its description and his experience.

He has also shown sensuousness of human nature in some poems like- Lost in the Lust, Lusty, She-Fears, Kisses, Valentine Hides In Shadow, in which he has depicted the feelings of both men as well as women.

Poetry is understood by many writers and authors as an ‘expressive’ of the human soul. Mill has declared that ‘poetry, when it is really such, is truth; and fiction also, if it is good for anything, is truth: but they are different truths. The truth of poetry is to paint the human soul truly; the truth of fiction is to give a true picture of life. Sonnet Mondal seems to believe it as there are some mystical poems in the collection like- The Lovely Highway (also based on loss of faith & belief), Mythical Chain of Life, Fear, Last Life, A Call Through Misty Eyes, Darkness Inside, Dying Every Day For Life, Let Us Be Safe, Last Life, The Lonely Highway, Religion of Nomads and Fear .

There are some poems which deal with the change of human nature like- Springs, Volvo which shows that how man in present scenario is becoming lavish and ease-living day by day which seems to be inspired from Browning and there are some poems dealing with scientific advancement like- Virus.

He has written some poems keeping in mind the fast changing world like- Ashes Won’t Claim Honour, Comprehend Not Waste, Let Me Bloom, I Am Not. Some poems seem to be based on Arnoldian style like- Perforations, Two Faces.

“Plato believed that poetry and literature are inextricably tied up with the values and ideologies of the culture as a whole: art is not separate from the socio-political sphere. This is reflected in some of the poems of Sonnet Mondal like Shirts of Politics, High Time, Turn Back, Clear Your Home, all these poems are about today’s life. There are poems about problems existing in our country and world- Reforming Norms, Night of Appeal, Stay Alert for Surprise, The Blacksmith and his Diamond.

The poem Just A Last Peg For The Jobless is the description of the anxiety and desperation of the jobless people. Mondal seems to show his concern about people who are unemployed.

Poet has highlighted the importance of a little phrase in our daily life in the poem, Say Cheese. He seems to sometimes feel panic about the age-old customs and traditions and wants to reform the society, this he has reflected in his poem, Reforming Norms and Your Life Is Over.

He has shown various ages of human beings while writing poem on old age- Through Cracks and Wrinkles and on childhood- Childhood Sounds. Cracks and Wrinkles shows us the wretched condition of old people. In Ponds of My Tears he seems to be nostalgic about his childhood days when he uses to go to pond with his grandfather. But now as his he has grown up and his grandfather, who has become old and can’t go with him for fishing to the pond, so he seems to be feeling depressed about those days.

The poem, Drunk is about a person’s addiction to alcohol. It tells about the effect the alcohol on a person and An Eve with a Stranger, is about the meeting of the poet with a stranger. There are some poems which are symbolic to some situations like- Legs and Floor, Swaying Bridges of Senescence, Venom of Futility, Night of Appeal, The Dog in the ATM, Beware, Glasses and Who Is This Man . He seems to be agreeing with the views of Mathew Arnold in his famous book of criticism, The Study of Poetry. “Poetry”, according to Matthew Arnold, is a criticism of life under the conditions fixed for such a criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty. And this he interprets as the application of ideas___ grand ideas- to life.

The poem, Two Eyes is about a bride which is being carried in a bullock cart. It also tells a story hidden behind the veil. The Story, of a young woman and a man in a village but now, who are married and have become two separate lives and Sliding Joy is also about marriage.

There is a beautiful poem, Earth Without Eyes, in which he seem to show his worry over the destruction of the natural objects like rivers, ponds seas and so on and he is deeply concern about the effect of this destruction. And again there is a concern for environment in the poem- Let Them Fly Away, in it he is trying to convey the message regarding the hazard caused by using polythene. The poem, Tears of a Window Pane is about the description of rain from a window of a house.

Showing his concern on health problems, he has written, Health, Deity of Spotlessness, After Rainfall, Last Flash Awareness in which he his reflecting his views on some diseases.

The Poet has shown his hatred towards the politicians and the dirty side of politics of his state in the poem, Shirts of Politics, which show his anger and hatred and at the same time there is hope that people will rise and fight against it. Having a deep regard for the soldiers, he has expressed his gratitude towards their bravery, selflessness and loyalty towards their nation in the poem, Turn Back, Clear Your Home. And he has expressed his deep love for his country in Your Name and Let My Tears Find You.

The poems- Lonely Book in Book Fair, Savour is about literary world. Lonely Book in Book Fair seems to tell about the present condition of attitude of society towards books. Poet seems to feel depressed about people’s attitudes towards books and Searching With Folded Hand is about his attitude, feelings and thinking towards his own writing and Expression seems to be about the plagiarism existing in the literary world today.

There are some poems which are memoirs like- My Garden in which he seems to remember his mother’s love for their garden and Years After seems to show his nostalgia about his College days. In the poem, he is expressing his desire to go back to those days when he had enjoyed with his friends in his Engineering College. He is missing the fun and excitement of the College canteen and other places, which he can’t do now, so he is longing to go back.

Mostly the poems in the Diorama of Three Diaries are written in blank verse and free verse. Poet has tried to show his innermost feelings for some issues and has dealt successfully with many themes in the book. All these poems are reflections of his intellect, creative mind and sensitivity.

Niels Hav

                                Featured Poetry of Niels Hav
               (Translated into English by P.K. Brask & Patrick Friesen)

Epigram

You can spend an entire life
in the company of words
not ever finding
the right one.

Just like a wretched fish
wrapped in Hungarian newspapers.
For one thing it is dead,
for another it doesn’t understand
Hungarian.

In Defense of Poets

What are we to do about the poets?
Life’s rough on them
they look so pitiful dressed in black
their skin blue from internal blizzards.

Poetry is a horrible disease,
the infected walk about complaining
their screams pollute the atmosphere like leaks
from atomic power stations of the mind. It’s so psychotic
Poetry is a tyrant
it keeps people awake at night and destroys marriages
it draws people out to desolate cottages in mid-winter
where they sit in pain wearing earmuffs and thick scarves.
Imagine the torture.

Poetry is a pest -
worse than gonorrhea, a terrible abomination.
But consider poets it’s hard for them
bear with them!
They are hysterical as if they are expecting twins
they gnash their teeth while sleeping, they eat dirt
and grass. They stay out in the howling wind for hours
tormented by astounding metaphors.
Every day is a holy day for them.

Oh please, take pity on the poets
they are deaf and blind
help them through traffic where they stagger about
with their invisible handicap
remembering all sorts of stuff. Now and then one of them stops
to listen for a distant siren. Show consideration for them.

Poets are like insane children
who’ve been chased from their homes by the entire family.
Pray for them
they are born unhappy
their mothers have cried for them
sought the assistance of doctors and lawyers,
until they had to give up
for fear of loosing their own minds.
Oh, cry for the poets!

Nothing can save them.
Infested with poetry like secret lepers
they are incarcerated in their own fantasy world
a gruesome ghetto filled with demons
and vindictive ghosts.

When on a clear summer’s day the sun shining brightly
you see a poor poet
come wobbling out of the apartment block, looking pale
like a cadaver and disfigured by speculations
then walk up and help him.
Tie his shoelaces, lead him to the park
and help him sit down on a bench
in the sun. Sing to him a little
buy him an ice cream and tell him a story
because he’s so sad.
He’s completely ruined by poetry.

Women of Copenhagen

I have once again fallen in love
this time with five different women during a ride
on the number 40 bus from Njalsgade to Østerbro.
How is one to gain control of one’s life under such conditions?
One wore a fur coat, another red wellingtons.
One of them was reading a newspaper, the other Heidegger
–and the streets were flooded with rain.
At Amager Boulevard a drenched princess entered,
euphoric and furious, and I fell for her utterly.
But she jumped off at the police station
and was replaced by two sirens with flaming kerchiefs,
who spoke shrilly with each other in Pakistani
all the way to the Municipal Hospital while the bus boiled
in poetry. They were sisters and equally beautiful,
so I lost my heart to both of them and immediately planned
a new life in a village near Rawalpindi
where children grow up in the scent of hibiscus
while their desperate mothers sing heartbreaking songs
as dusk settles over the Pakistani plains.

But they didn’t see me!
And the one wearing a fur coat cried beneath
her glove when she got off at Farimagsgade.
The girl reading Heidegger suddenly shut her book
and looked directly at me with a scornfully smile,
as if she’d suddenly caught a glimpse of Mr. Nobody
in his very own insignificance.
And that’s how my heart broke for the fifth time,
when she got up and left the bus with all the others.
Life is so brutal!
I continued for two more stops before giving up.
It always ends like that: You stand alone
on the kerb, sucking on a cigarette,
wound up and mildly unhappy.

Copyright © 2011Niels Hav

                                Featured Poetry of Sherry Steiner

He…

he
became a surrealist
from lack of funds.
barefoot
on a frozen river
as slippery as
a
dance
in japanese
or
italian
he
held himself
upright
lit by a string
of
garden
lanterns.
trees bared fruit
original scripts edited.
where
is the manifesto ~

ETIENNE

etienne
returned in a                    half-hearted manner
only                      to fade again
in small isolation
segments             classic tracking shots
that
in a spurious moment           drown
characters in
their surroundings                 while
the vertical pan                                        deletes memories.
how he figures others lives
is somewhat akin               to peeling the potato
in the dark.
phillip                      on the other hand
relinquished all                            rights to his environment
when his socioeconomic
status clearly                     fell out.
confusion rained -
where was the theme – where was the plot.
it was a crime.                     he went around telling
everyone                            about the special implications in
idiomatic language.
etienne.
dominated by the tilt             of the shot
he views
attitudinal statements
passing
through                  canal street.
screwdrivers, nails and hammers.
whatever you need you can get.
pierre snickers.
a triangle pointing                 straight up
to the sky in 1941
superimpositions                   vague and random factors.
dream idioms                           grab the guts of sleepers
in a matter of fashion…

MUTTER

a little overdue -
thumb rubbing majors
filed past
the devil in spanish
chanting
poly-sci allegories
overconfident lies
stuffed in a sock ~
a broken seatbelt
a slick tire
3 dents daisy
somebody felt odd.
with eyebrows arched
back flat
tummy tucked
a slow hour to
nowhere stonewalling
the information canal
drenched in sweat…
a veil of roses
bedded a cherry picker
a sack of thorns
scorched millions
sitting
up and then down
in the goldfish pond.
a misunderstood poem
became a sonnet
of
regret
as they all whispered
geronimo
morphing to granite
in one loud
mutter
of
obliterated unreason…
textbooks
failed to deliver
breakfast on time
naked leather
simmered and a fracas could be heard
in this                      port-of-call ~

Copyright © 2011 Sherry Steiner

                                Featured Poetry of Stephanie Kjaerbaek

A Dream of the English countryside

A body left beside the cliffs
Before the rising low tide
I saw white cliffs and castles
Broken down, and not a soul around
Just the scent of death’s love on ground.

I know he didn’t love me
I know he rejected me
He killed himself because of her
I saw the future in a dream
A story of lost love not what it seems.

I possess a rose inside my thorn
And one only to the subject of scorn
She was as mad as the day she was born
A prickly ox-eyed daisy from the flesh
She lost her fingernails, which bled, torn.

A particular obsession lingers
I felt the sharp nail of a finger
I saw the car roll over the cliff and down,
I slept after I slammed on cracked concrete
Outstretched over a bird’s-eye view of the city.

The jutting hamlet near the township
It was a hot and peculiar day
I found that love had finally found a way
Before my eye the past fell to pieces
And roses replaced the stench of feces.

With a Bullet

I will murder the Tsar tonight
A horse carriage takes me along
With a bullet to right the wrong.
Blood upon concrete and marble walls
The Amber room revisited
I think the ambience serves me well
Taking back what is mine tonight
The beaten down forest and gravel
Assassin’s eyes, a careful disguise
A fur cap and black coat to hide
My instructions from the prison
There entered a bullet, the heat plummets
Into the dusk of Siberian nigh
The marriage and masquerade
I left behind the parade’s vision
I heard the wailing voice inside
And swallowed the moment with pride
A flash of light in death’s air
A strong scent of decomposition
I sent a telegram: ‘Beware.’
Spellbound by the lust in his eyes
A cry against the sudden loss of life
He knew I was coming for him tonight
Never been a savior in my eyes.

Mysteries

Stuck on an island with my regret
A loner they cannot forget
Yet they don’t remember me.
The taste of saltwater leaves a craving
For the secrets of my mystery

The abandonment by my lover more than I could bare
Up there with the wind, I could only stare.
My airplane crashed and burned in the sea
They last heard me on a radio calling
“Sending out an S.O.S., won’t someone rescue me?”

Am I just a castaway to my country?
Why don’t they care about me?
I saw Japanese soldiers after they had landed ashore
I am not a spy but now my prison cell is my home.
I used to have a home, neither am I
A slave nor a spy for the dictates of New Rome.

Regrets

Loneliness is the burden that a man must bare
Or else, he reveals the depths of his own despair.
Fearful of misrepresentation by another
He takes on his fear of vanity by confrontation
Before a broken mirror before his younger lover.
In a sea of no regrets, there is one hope:
The only island left after the crash remains,
And it Is the paradise created for me.

Nobody here to betray, nobody to remain
And nobody left to rescue me from myself.
The light extends as far as I can see
The bay an image upon the horizon
Far away with the sight of bison.
My open regret is my only despair
All efforts fail because I no longer care.
I expected my own determination.

Not life resigned to a man’s expectations
Mold the clay from the drying sculpture if you will
I would prefer to lie bare before the scavengers
Than to surrender to a controller of such formidable skill.

Copyright © 2011 Stephanie Kjaerbaek

Ali Abdolrezaei

Ali Abdolrezaei was born on 10 April 1969 in Northern Iran. He completed his primary and secondary education in his city of birth and after receiving his diploma in mathematics passed the nationwide university entrance exams. He graduated with a Masters degree in Mechanical Engineering from Tehran Technical and Engineering University. He began his professional poetic career in 1986 and became one of the most serious and contentious poets of the new generation of Persian poetry. Abdolrezaei has had an undeniable effect on many Persian poets through of his poetry as well as his speeches and interviews. He is also one of the few poets who succeeded in expressing his unique poetic individuality. His 21 varied books of poetry –In Riskdom Where I lived, Shinema, So Sermon of Society, Improvisation, This Dear Cat, Paris in Renault, More Obscene than Literature, Hermaphrodite, A Gift in A Condom, You Name this Book, Only Iron Men Rust in the Rain, Terror, La Elaha Ella Love and Fackbook – endorse his poetic creativity and power. Nearly all well-known poets and critics of Persian poetry have written about Abdolrezaei’s work. In September 2002 after his protest against heavy censorship of his latest books such as So Sermon of Society and Shinema, he was banned from teaching and public speaking. He left Iran and after staying a few months in Germany, followed by two years in France, he moved to London, where he has been living for the last 6 years.

                                Featured Poetry of Ali Abdolrezaei
                                (Translated into English by Abol Froushan)

Always Afterwards

You no longer wish to look
like the one I liked
you’ve changed your shadows
shaved your hair
and sitting knees apart before me
thorns of the hidden rose sticking out
You come to my dreams always afterwards
after I wake
I think of you still
Like a rose that buds
under its thorns in late summer
no matter if I water it or not
my hair all fallen at my feet pre-autumn
the children have already denuded
the almond tree

Painter

With the same fingers I made slender
take a sheet from your pile of paper
that might as well be A3
not to forget the same brush I gave you
and that box of paint I nicked for you
pin the sheet to your canvas
now take a seat on the chair from Poland
and I in the expanse of this park am sat waiting on this half empty bench
Hurry up
Put a few somewhat yellow tips of branches by the grey sky you paint at the top of the sheet
a background of few naked trees with few leaves in the air will be excellent
now install a bench at the bottom of the sheet
and paint a man sat waiting love stricken
his lover has not come – so put more lines on his face
she’s not coming – some more face lines please
won’t come – so please some more still
just come inside the frame yourself and put my mind at ease

Geometry

As I poured out of Paris clouds
and flew to an airport cafe
that sat face to face
with two black symbols
under two eyebrows

I had only read two lines on the forehead
when I arrived at a black subtitle
which the hair dresser up the road had censored
in two short line segments
in a fine font

above two symbols set in Chinese
vertical writing that one knows
you have two very lips
that want to swallow me

you’re no prettier than
Langrude, Tehran or Paris
like other women I divorced
I’ll separate from you too London

Pomegranate

This dry tree
how has it arranged itself so well
so well … under the rain…. to stand up?
The pomegranate that’s hanging
why should someone squeeze …. who knows nothing?

Why the rain that should rain down in this poem doesn’t rain?

And life…. this short lullaby…. finally puts me to sleep
on a page that spent a life in ‘I don’t know’

How many times should I write
the poem … that I’ll never write?
I’m sure….London’s blood group
which most likely is O or
doesn’t match mine
because I keep hitting the rain…keep getting wet

What ecstasy revolves round this
thought that’s in my mind
I wish someone came
to stop this Dervish that keeps twirling in my head
the rain that keeps raining no longer comes to my poem

This cursed beast
has brought tears to all eyes

This inquisitor
who drags so much out of the clouds over London

Is someone idling up there
or is it true
that it’s still raining?

We all die
so nothing ends
what a shame

Circle

You are reading a poem called circle
Hold it there
Hands off the library
Arm around the windows and the doors
Bedding into the sofa
Now you may read a poem by Ali Abdolrezaei
Please open the book
You see?
You are reading a poem called Circle
So hold it there
Take your hands off the library
Kick the door out of the house
Tumble down the stairs
In the new park or the old one behind the Town Hall
On the same bench that sent my father door to door and
stopped my mother Sit down
Tell them off those children playing ball
Now you may read a poem by Ali Abdolrezaei
Please turn the page of this gate whichever way you like
It’s a shame
You are standing at the end of a poem Called Circle

Sausage

Her hands that were in the photograph
I held with both hands
When she got up she didn’t say thank you
May I walk with you?

Didn’t say no
I held her hands
we walked a picture

The one they hid in your eyes
the more I look the less I find
by the way aren’t you married?

She didn’t say
won’t you?
Didn’t say no!
We did!
Days were passing as the wind
and nights were no longer than seconds
we were two lonely photos
that the world wanted to expel from the album
Expelled! Don’t believe it?
Tonight when we’re sleeping obverse in another photo
pay that album a visit
open the fridge door in that shot and help yourself
to whatever
Sorry! we only have sausages!

Held my hands and step by step died of sorrow

Whatever I think about either isn’t or was.
Such important things!
How would the salaried truth of bureaucratic lies know?
Still, blessed are the meek

My sister who read many palms
Has another brother that I have not
My father suffers door to door by an ardour
that opened doors to these
door to door days
And my friends…

My friends?!
By the way, who were they?
Why don’t I remember?

I only worry these days about she who was
who no longer is

You alright my son? Got money? Don’t you catch cold all of a sudden. Sleeping well?

Soon as I wanted to coo out a mate
And celebrate she aged
Mother was the early seat of my voice
which as I drifted further away from became late

Mother…

Mother?!

Foolish is the poet
who tries to pin this with the pen

Cloud

When Night appeared
the frame of time when it got away was a spectacle
Facing up from the morning pillow
The day paused a little
Tomorrow didn’t know it has to come
and night that took a bite of light
fell on a piece of apple that came third in the world
Cold sound tumbled down the mountains
and
green clambered up the ravines
and
Man stuck at the cross roads, became pedestrian
in the same path that afterwards led to many
Picked the sun off heads of days one by one
and hoarded it
so when water became a deluge to
leave the ark to Noah
make the sword a bare necessity
having to discover sulphur
and gunpowder to add to life
still to make no difference

still the day comes
the night like a dark cow breaks out of the manger
the day gets lost behind a brown calf
and the nimbus that is the mother of a missing son
revolves round the sky
and keeps looking
not to find a quiet spot
to cry her heart out

Album

This is my Mum Isn’t she beautiful?
This is my brother and this, my father
If only he knew how door to door I am now
Poor innocent thing
This one is Sara the youngest
this smiley face also…can’t remember the
name!

Exile, exile what havoc it wreaks on the memory
She’s my eldest sister
She used to pass out laughing
when shooting pictures

I’m at a loss how these pictures of lips that have smiled
are movies of eyes that have cried
Leave it!
But how mixed up I am
Poor dear my peasant Mum
If freedom ever pays Iran a visit
You’ll become my father’s new bride
and after breakfast my sister
will burn frankincense
to smudge around my head and dispel the Devil’s eye
on my having a Leila in the night most
and my Mum while boasting
will be throwing confetti and ululating in the paddy at
the bottom of the garden
so her son may eye up the lap of this lass and be
turned on – I’m turned on
Now that we’re enthralled shoulder to shoulder in the
hall of this house
why not make believe we’re wrapped in the bliss of rice
paddies? Let go

Rain

In the sky of a town that turned so decrepit
When I put up my umbrella
I arrive at those village days
To a girl bending under the rain
Planting rice
Who abruptly became a woman
A woman in the rain still standing tall
Who said time and again to a man
Whose name she did not know
‘Why run away?
Why the umbrella?
Only iron men rust in the rain.’

Copyright © 2011 Ali Abdolrezaei

Sarah Gamutan

            Featured Poetry of Sarah Gamutan

Measurer

The man at the street is so perplexed on how
to measure the four wall of different angles -that

every time he strolls, it brings him no closure. He
made it to the store, one day, to rob a ruler to measure
how many years does he have to stay on the filthy road.

Since then, he has been reported missing by his chap as
his soul finds it really hard to calculate the numbers.

Protuberant Eyes

Desperation. When you just can’t leave the seat
only because you can’t miss every poem, every
line your husband writes as if he was the only

lover in the world, imagining the craziest feelings
can ever do to creatures who are only thinking
on the amor itself but not how it would cause

someone to get so mad her eyes protrude and
her flesh reach ageing and stress. Over- enamored.

Nasturtium and Its Language

The day is so frolic
When the two girls are in one room.
The girl with blond hair is Sasha
While her playmate Anne is brunette.
They are both sisters and
Their parents are divorced.

Sasha is mute and Anne is deaf.
You can see the look in their eyes
How they smile and talk -
They talk through whispers of scribbles,
Yes, through a clean sheet of paper.

Ms. Dalloway, their grandma, peers
Furtively at a place of concealment
Through a slightly opened door. She sees how they peacefully
Teach each other with their own experiences
-through a life of colors.

Sasha grabs a handful of crayons
And a clean sheet of paper.
Using a yellow crayon, she writes
The word “YELLOW”
On the piece of paper. Then, she relays
This message to her sister Anne
Saying, “This is yellow,
You got it?”

This barrier of passion-
For Sasha’s words. What comes out
Of her mouth are vowels-
Passionate, eager- to- teach vowels.
Anne, on the other hand, only
Learns through lip- reading.

Anne is younger. She needs more,
More and more;
She barely corresponds. Her language,
Too, is compromised.

All Ms. Dalloway can see from her
End is a nod of affirmation
From that young child Anne.
She takes all of those in-
The yellow and the vowels.
Her own intake.

Sasha, on the other hand, looks elated.
By her countenance, she looks happy
For her sister has learned on thing today.

She looks forward tomorrow
For Anne to learn one more word
While Ms. Dalloway at her stance
Turns back and wipes her glistening tears
With her left hand. She now calls it joy.

Left- Handed

Her conviction that she can make it
To write these poems and not be
Intimidated with her legend in writing
And her angst
Vixen shouts at her for
She runs away

Yes that lady who just turned back
Left her footprints. Who is she?
She is no one. Just keep writing
On you hard-earned poem.
From afar I waited, I died on that line
Spoken firmly by a man who let
Me choose which poem is
Better, hers or mine

Music Box

My grandma gave me music
Box before she left her soul and
Went to heaven. The box just kept on
Playing the same music over and over again.

Copyright © 2011 Sarah Gamutan

Vernon Frazer

                                Featured Poetry of Vernon Frazer

Rising to the Bottom

beating hatchets on a thorn fire
rescue slogging more distant
than trial accrues prenatal fiasco
brewing dissonant acclamation
voids where prohibited vitreous
humor laughs in the bowels
of sheep with plaster anonymity
a glucose wedding left unmixed
or guested in vestments short
of longing a saddle-cramped mix
bent fluidity and angled crossings
a door to the merriment others endure
vivisection of the half-shell ostinato
baking vacant herds to ratchet horns
groggy the instant they bellowed
floor pageants to grass-lowing skies
a trap-door conveyance clogged
ragged elements turned phosphor
from greed-lit after image glyphs
dented with a message from margin
paring practical endeavors pitted
across the fruited plain flouting
deep insistence through acclamation
shored under reaping slopes
or gamelan antiqua’s first notch
at fonting the plan burning vowels
under secret irritants revealing thirst
wrenches annoying tablet feeds
cripples where titanic bones lift
scratches from a wending surplus
waning its ascot to the nearest drift
to fixate anomaly clusters undaunted
as the next wave of hired apostates

Whetting Darkness

Scalpel tethers tease the ledge
of precipice bargain shores,
a storage implicit in breaking
the carrion cartel. Where previous
measures have recalculated
the pent-up coastal dream,
the pleasing weather bleeds
explosive currency under a
trail of hidden watchbands.
Foraging under what eased
the pledge for noncommittal
boasts elicited the barren repose
dotting the swollen scoreboard.
Hidden pleasures always sneak.
The view hosts engendered from
broken pledges renewed when
torn from their accolades. A guilty
measure violates probation at
philatelic autonomic hearing
platters. Whether it teases
the broken wedge scraping,
wet tortuga downs the periscope
through the hooded veil, or, in
a slowly wooded velcro sequence.
The noontime module fixation
unleashes tarpaulin rebukes to
ashen shoreline testers in jest
for oiling their pneumatic spills.
Keeping abreast of parabolic
assets, cores to essential element
grinders a souffle entrapped
at a kegel refinery. Hooped through
label sausage, composure sails
cresting against the test of sunset.

In the Green Room

The spectral ballast denounces its pallor
in mongoose repellent stairwells, fanning
banners at the haggling escort’s breeze.

No lecture cast the first wave dispersal,
compelling the valley cast to announce
delayed planning accents. Near bridge

constellations, impugning parlor games
under recall for a purpose undeterred
from magnification of quest intonements,

stalled to last. As moribund cattle call
collect on cast rehearsal, wagers braced
against the piles of thought-for victories

no faster than the swelling pear-like and
voracious plight so graciously plying his
nostrils. At scent a cue: bravo to the next

financier emerging from its valor, taste
on loosely embellished channels canned
for heat. On tuna, brace lets meals relay

pell mell victory platters to the aching
miscreants lurking under the fallen arch,
whose message delayed a tactical meet.
From baked concentration held at rail,
depth or seal, vainly flattened to grace,
forewarned glory as fallen fascination

Aching for the Moment

The first incantations
crest their ache at tidewater.

Renewal,
diverting the newly scripted
passage,

cast inflections on the border
to redress snicker-toed tablets

brewing the clash.
Talking monkey grinds to curvature polish

on a backslide vacuum
where rotor waves till the breaking
distance, a pace

of instants, tide to packing

A Fit Among the Pieces

A corpulent sneeze
riles the orbital shores

sure as the last pronouncement

Suites of vindication
pass the last cormorant board
a lopsided fixation

as vested. Fixed interest rates

stained novelty
pastures. A lasting grimace

unfolds the story’s prevalent triangulation.

Copyright © 2011 Vernon Frazer

Safaa Sheikh Hamad

                              Featured Poetry of Safaa Sheikh Hamad

“You speak to me of language, nationality, religion…. I shall try to fly by those nets”
A portrait of the artist as a young man, chapter 5.

Solo lives

Devoid of an episode
His soul felt restless in the maze
Many souls passed by his
But never reached the intimacy of the end of days

When he tried to set a dream
On the soil of the maze
They took him for a Byronic hero
Confiscated the buds
And locked him in a corner
There he met Stephen Dedalus
Weeping the molten wings of Daedalus

This is the land of no dreams, my friend, Stephen said,

This is a place where they lash your eyes by lashes
Dangle your legs by the road
Jail your brain in the claustrophobic skull walls
That never had emergency exits
To breathe dreams and aspirations
This land had a far reachable sky
With an arid desert of clouds
To quench not the thirst in the sighs

This land
I, not Stephen, said

Is a tear echoing across the
Ribs of my
Chest

Thus sang the troubadour

Coming from behind the sea of Atlas
Ships laden with cargoes of death
Hearts full of purulence
Minds that never cared about a soul
Led by the new Agamemnon
To smash Troy that never kidnapped Helen
Joy has been stripped off
Sadness hovered over the place
The vigilant watchman is sleeping with a whore
To live or to die is the same
For they both lost a meaning
The mad man in our village could not answer
Why we had to commit suicide
And give a cold shoulder to the godless heaven

Arabs of bad blood gave Agamemnon the sands
Ferdinand de Lesseps resurrected again
Had a toast of champagne with the new Pasha
Waved for the scum of the earth
Crossing Suez Canal to the desert of Arabi

Sheikhs of Arabia drinking mugs of espresso
Whispered in each other’s ears the news from Cheney
Had a few words with the devil’s advocate
And decided to say “NO” while their “YES” had already pushed the button

The rains in Kirkuk washed the gloom of the earth
But rainbow never showed up
For the red prevailed
It is war, carrying an obsession of mongers

Many men will die, sang the troubadour, Arabs
Kurds
Torkomans
Many men will die

March was an eye witness
And its nineteenth was the first to burn.

My little sister woke up in the early morning
She said Mrs. Mallaby of the yesterday’s bedtime story
Met her in a dream and was all alone
In her hundredth birthday,
There was no post card
No birthday cake with hundred candles
No umbrella for the rainy Sundays
No kitten mewed at her door

March was an eye witness
And its nineteenth was the first to burn

Apache
Cluster bombs
Scud missiles
White phosphorous

Were all death retailers in Mesopotamia

The little Umm Qasr under the flame
Reminded us of Leningrad
Sweeping the young dead bodies with a broom
Making heaps of souls
Preparing a meal for the ravens

Shock and Awe quaked the earth
Buttons unleashed death into the eyes
That is enough, said my friend and shut the radio off,
Tell them, I said to him
Tell them we had enough
Death
Shock
Awe

Tell them the Tigris had enough bodies of assassinated dreams
Euphrates vomited the sense of clarity
Shatt-al-Arab wept the death of the palm trees
The Gulf engulfed all the bitterness
Hugged the two rivers
Buried the bodies of the dead
Washed their blood off the salty beaches
And listened to the troubadour
Who was still singing,

Many men will die
Many men will die

March was an eye witness,
And its nineteenth was the first to burn

Father

Father?
Father!
Will I cry when you die?

Father was silent
Looking at three kids
Weeping a slain father

Father?
Father!

Father was silent
And I whispered a wish:
No father
No reason to cry

Live from Baghdad

Live from Baghdad
The night curtains are pulled down the horizon
Nothing but the dark
No one sways with me
When my heart releases the euphoric pulses
All void
All around
The faces sell nakedness cheep
The moon is a dead solar cell
A fraud philanthropist
Confiscating children’s books of history
Compensating them bitter lollypops

Live from Baghdad
The pain is the galaxy
The Milky Way is the trail of Abeer
The rooms that once had doors
Oozed out the couples flirting
What is left of the piano but fat legs
And the gone memory of the old book of tones!?
Sometimes
The alienation that gallowed
The kisses of my loved ones
Become a refuge
For the sighs that sounded like shrieks

Live from Baghdad
And the dumb soldier is shooting in the air
Not always of course
For he likes to wipe out
The exclamation marks guns carve on the foreheads
Here, Esteban Murillo can paint many small beggars
And windows that never brought hope
Tomorrow is a future clothed in history rags

Live from Baghdad
Not so live
Live enough to cry the moment of eternal despair

Grief

“Baghdad was always a beautifully young woman, and…raped every time she goes out for a walk with her lover” A no longer friend of mine.

The pedestrians walked on the road side
But the echo of their steps
Was heard in the sewage tunnels

While their eyes were still looking up.

The young woman who dialed 24434
Couldn’t talk to God. His voice was breaking
And refused to change his place.

At the renaissance of barbarity,
There were only three people left:
A tongueless rhapsody to recite my misery,
A clown with one thousand faces to mock me,
And a whore with ten o’clock legs to remind me
That the roads are many
But they all lead to Baghdad.

Heads and Tails

Having captured ten innocent people for no reason but being different in how they worship God, the militia thugs, in one the streets of Baghdad 2006, are told through the radio that there is a place only for six.

In a dark street of Baghdad,
Where empathy begs shelter
From villains with guns and ideologies,
Heads and Tails is the game.

Man down
No one cares
Two
Three
Four
All down

And no one cares

The dead were from the other side.
Their blood was blue*,
And they had only families
And dreams to cross the bridge alive.

*In Iraqi countryside culture, someone with a blue blood means someone different.

Copyright © 2011 Safaa Sheikh Hamad